An Almost Affair In Three Acts
by Colorblind City
Summary: "Who is the deluded one? Me, thinking her faultless, or him, thinking her abominable?" Irene Adler, as seen through the eyes of John Watson. Sherlock/Irene, one-sided Watson/Irene. Three-shot.
1. Act I

This has been in my drafts for years, and I thought, to hell with it, i'm gonna post it as it is. Originally it was 100% platonic but then... well, this happened. I blame Jude Law in Anna Karenina.

Yeah, probably no one's gonna read this one, but it's one of my favorite things I've ever written so here, i'm posting it anyways.

* * *

**Act I**

.

I had seen her but once in my life, through the veil of lacy curtains and artificial smoke. Then Holmes' plans went awry —a novelty in itself— and just as suddenly as we were driven into her path, she had fled ours.

I had caught, of course, glimpses of her photograph, in the rare occasions when Holmes' broods rescued it from its dusty tomb, locked inside one of the drawers of his desk.

In these instances, he'd sit by the fireplace holding the portrait in a manner that prevented any passers-by (meaning me) from properly examining the object of his attention, and really, by the constant lack of expression on his face, he could have fooled the world into thinking he was looking at a painting of the most boring landscape in England.

I knew better, and he knew he wasn't fooling me. Still, I let him keep this pretense; it gave him his privacy in a way, privacy that he would never ask for, as in his mind the concept of needing privacy denoted a sentimentality he was not willing to recognize in himself.

He gave himself away so stupidly sometimes, though. For all the indifference shown to the photograph, Holmes guarded it zealously, as if the sight of it was meant for his eyes only. He kept it locked up for this reason, and I believe also because if it were to sit proudly on top of his desk, it would cause an unnecessary distraction.

I could hardly say I had her face memorized, and if I were to describe her I'd surely fail, for the mental image her name evoked was hazy, faded by the effects of time, blurred as if seen through a distorted glass.

And yet, I had not the slightest doubt it was her, standing in my medical practice, with her lovely face covered in little cuts and bruises, holding her left hand awkwardly in front of her and asking me in the most casual manner to take care of her injuries.

Shocked as I was (she had ran away to the continent, after all, never to set foot in England again), I allowed instinct to take over and politely asked her to sit down while I readied my equipment. She complied and I was quick to start the examination of her hand. Two broken fingers, sprained wrist. I was working up the courage to ask what (most likely who) had caused this damage, while cursing Holmes for choosing today to leave London.

While pondering on that, I also came to the realization that we had never officially met, and though she had seen through Holmes' disguise, she had no reason to know who I was, nor that I was in any way associated with him.

For whatever reason she was in London, and for whatever reason she was injured, she had been looking for a Doctor to tend to her, and most likely somebody she knew recommended my services. She could not possibly know I was the man that once threw a smoke rocket into her house in order to make her believe there was a fire.

After repeating that to myself a couple of times more, I felt my anxiety settle and finally found myself able to speak.

"Madame, if it is not overstepping, may I ask how you obtained these injuries?"

"Well, Doctor Watson, as you may recall from my letter to your friend, male costume is nothing new to me, and neither is the trouble it occasionally gets me in," she replied cryptically, then seeming to remember herself, she extended her good hand to me. "How rude of me to skip a proper introduction, but that's Americans for you. Nice to finally meet you, Doctor Watson. I hope you hold no resentment for past actions of mine that may have caused you and your friend inconveniences."

Ah, but she had followed us back to Baker Street that night, had she not?

"Enchanted," I said as politely as I could, wondering for a moment what to do with the offered hand, set in front of me at a strange angle that made it unclear whether she expected me to kiss it or shake it. Clearly, it was a test, did I see an ordinary woman? or had Holmes, and therefore I, learned our lesson and viewed her as our equal?

The answer was clear to me, so I took her hand and shook it firmly, as if she were a man. It was obviously the right thing to do, as her pleased smile revealed.

"Now, Miss Adler," I ventured, purposefully mistaking her name to find out whether she was still married, and dutifully she corrected me.

"Mrs. Norton"

"I beg your pardon. Mrs. Norton, I'm afraid I need you to be more specific, how did you come to have these injuries?"

She was silent, and I could see the wheels turning inside her head, as she was surely thinking up a good enough excuse. Hopefully Holmes would be back in time to see her and find out the truth.

"I will spare you the excuses, Doctor, if you do me a little favor."

I was unaccustomed to women being this outspoken, hell, even most men I knew weren't this straight-forward! (except, of course, the very man to whom I owed having met this woman).

"Well, that depends on the favor, although surely you must understand that if I don't agree I will still know whatever you have told me is a lie."

She smiled like the proverbial cat who got the mouse, making me feel cheated even though she was the one to blow her bluff.

"Consider it a wager that you'll agree."

"What is this favor you speak of?" I said urgently, and to my shame somewhat ungentlemanly, but since we were being so straight-forward and her request for a handshake declared she would not accept any condescension from me, it seemed being as direct as her was the right course of action.

"I would very much appreciate it if you did not mention this to your..." Her hesitation made me nervous, for it seemed she was holding back from making an assumption I was not unfamiliar with. "Your colleague," at last she said, with a diplomacy that reminded me how versatile she could be. "I'm convinced our dear Mr. Holmes is an objective man who can accept his defeat gracefully, however -and I'm sure you can understand my position- I would not put it past him to... retaliate."

"I assure you my friend would never inconvenience you like that," was my tight reply.

"Oh, I believe you, I truly do. But my being in London is a bit of a confidential matter, and I would rather keep it that way."

"Confidential to whom?"

"Ah, nothing escapes you, does it?" her eyes gleamed, in a somewhat mischievous manner that made me uncomfortable beyond reason. I returned my attention to her wounded hand, deciding to disregard her comment. "It is my husband who doesn't know of this little escapade," she continued after a while, in a businesslike voice that betrayed her lack of desire to elaborate. "I had a few matters to attend to, loose ends I had no time to tie, what with my rushed departure and all."

I half-chuckled, half-grunted at that, looking back up to find a smug look on her face. For some reason, her constant gloating did not annoy me as much as it should have; there was something truly lovely about her, a kind of elegance so innate not even rudeness could damper its charm, a casual air of conceit in her posture that spoke of confidence so great it feared no assault, a winner so deserving that her success could never be held against her.

"My friend has no way of contacting your husband, nor motivation to give you away to him, so I don't see how it would affect your plans if I were to mention your presence in London to him." I began bandaging her hand then. "In fact, I rather think he'd enjoy having a word with you. He holds for you nothing but the greatest admiration, I believe."

"Does he, now?" her voice reflected amusement but her eyes went dark, pensive, lost in some very interesting detail of the wallpaper in front of her. She seemed — dare I say it? — melancholic, and although I barely knew her (and what I did know of her wasn't entirely pleasing), I felt the strangest pang of sympathy, even though I had not the scarcest idea what was making her grieve so.

"_The Woman,_ he calls you, as if to him there is no other." I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. _God, if Holmes ever finds out about this..._

But it was almost worth it, to see the stunned, breathless look on her face. She stared at me with eyes like moons, round and luminous, irises a pale gray and pupils tiny —she was facing the window, the full force of the morning's white light giving her skin an ethereal glow, and in that moment she looked like the ghost of some long-mourned lover.

Whose lover, mine or _his,_ to this day I'm not sure.

It was truly quite a thing for a mortal to behold. I will go to hell for it, but when she seemed to start recovering I scrambled to keep her in that state.

"He rejected the King's payment, and asked only to keep your photograph."

The color she had begun to regain flushed right out of her face. Her breath quickened, and I pressed my fingers to the inside of the wrist I was still holding, counting the galloping beats of her heart with morbid fascination.

"He keeps it locked up, can't bear to look at it for too long, lest he-"

"Stop." Her eyes were closed, teeth pressing hard on her lower lip.

When she released it, it was red as blood. Her eyes opened to reveal baby blue irises and dilated pupils.

Not the ghost anymore, but the lover. Panting, restless, intoxicated. _Burning._

She smiled at me with those burning eyes, though her mouth remained half-opened, fighting for air that consumed halfway to her lungs. I knew because I felt it too.

"Oh, Doctor Watson..." she breathed in her low voice, sending an explosion of shivers through me. "I am ever in your debt."

She removed her hand from my hold (I was not done with the bandaging, but she didn't seem interested and I had not the strength to protest) and used the uninjured one to pat my cheek.

Then she was gone, and for the next hour I struggled to remember the exact shade of yellow of my Mary's hair.

Holmes came home long after nightfall, pulling impatiently at his fake beard while talking excitedly about one of the cleverest robberies he'd seen in a long time.

"Such a shame the guard tried to take on the culprit, Watson. He might've seen their face instead of being beaten to a pulp."

She never did tell me how she sprained her wrist.


	2. Act II

This is set somewhere before the events in AGOS, and by that I mean, THE event, you know the black queen and the handkerchief and Moriarty and that infamous cup of tea ...

* * *

**Act II**

.

Somehow, over the years, we settle into a strange routine. I become her head physician (she says she has one in every important city in Europe, but since most of her "work" is done in London, I am the one she sees most often. Before this, I never knew Doctors could feel jealous of other Doctors), and from then on my nights become restless, and my sleep light, for I never know when she's going to stop by, pick the lock on our door and let herself in.

(Holmes, of course, is non the wiser about these meetings. She asked for secrecy, and as her Doctor I owe it to her.)

* * *

.

One night she comes with a few cuts across her face and a blotted lip. As I carefully dab some balm at it, she whispers: "Won't you kiss it better?" and I chuckle, shaking my head.

Later, though, after I have finished cleaning her up, I do.

The press of my lips on her lower one is gentle, a mere brush, and then they linger, millimeters away, until the way they tickle the wound makes her wince, and I pull away.

I stand up, putting away the medical equipment only for the sake of having something to do. The atmosphere is not, per se, awkward, but there is something hanging in the air... regret, hesitation, expectation...

Our clandestine meetings had never seemed misleading until now.

She doesn't approach me, although I can sense she is quite ready to. There is a question in her eyes, and only then do I begin to wonder what I was thinking when I kissed her. My skin feels wired up and my muscles wound too tight, and it would be so easy to write this off as physical attraction but a voice in my head tells me that's the coward's way out.

Holding her gaze, searching for any signal that I should stop, I approach her again. When my face is but an inch from hers she lowers her eyes, lids fluttering, lashes trembling, and who reaches across the distance first I will never know for sure.

She kisses me hard, intensely, no trace of hesitation left. I've always known her to be a woman of quick decisions, but I found myself amazed at her ability to commit so thoroughly to a decision made mere seconds ago. Her hands thread my hair as she pulls me closer, my own gripping her waist hard enough to bruise, and so it continues until... well, until the only real obstacle between us interferes.

Through the silence rips a loud snore, and for a moment I'm tempted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but then it registers on my brain who the sound came from.

Our lips freeze almost at the same moment, mine always, always slower to respond to my brain's commands.

Here we are, his best friend and the woman he (says he doesn't, but we both know better) loves, kissing like there's no tomorrow while he sleeps in the next room. We should be pulling away from each other like the contact burns, yet we remain a hair's breadth away.

She is peering at me with heavy-lidded eyes, regret written all over her face. I stare back trying to mimic the emotion, even though I feel strangely empty. Slowly, tortuously, almost like she wishes she didn't have to (and oh, how I want to believe it is so), she peels herself away from me, and cold washes over my body, all the way down to my bones.

Her eyes are lowered as she moves around the room, picking up her waistcoat and pulling it on carefully, wincing as it brushes the gash in her arm. Same happens with her jacket. She looks properly ashamed, for the first time since I've known her, and I'm torn between feeling my pride wounded and relief that her feelings for my friend are serious.

I settle for the latter, because I do not want to deal with the implications of the former.

She can scarcely face me, stands by the surgery table fidgeting with some bandages, probably trying to decide between addressing me again or dashing for the door.

Taking a breath to steady myself, I step forth and hold my hand out. She eyes it for a few seconds that feel stretched into eternity, then she raises her head and gives me guarded look, before taking my hand and shaking it firmly, resolutely.

_This never happened._

I nod and she nods back, then she drops my hand and walks out without a single word.

The incident is left forgotten in the darkness of my practice room.

* * *

.

(It's not the only incident we left forgotten in the dark)

.

* * *

.

I make myself look away for as long as possible, and when it becomes inevitable to look, she has pulled the shirt off and is covering her breasts with her arm. I can't help sighing in relief and she lets out a laugh, small and awkward and nothing like the salacious smirks she used to give me. I call that progress, though what we are progressing _towards,_ is still a mystery.

Beneath her arm on her left side there's an enormous purple bruise. I prod at it gently to try and assort the damage to her rib. She winces and pulls her lip between her teeth, but otherwise remains quiet.

"Not your first cracked rib, is it?" I state more than ask, and she nods, inhaling sharply when my fingers find the exact place of the crack.

"It was a cracked rib that made me retire from Opera," her voice is thin with veiled pain and her breathing has gone ragged. I nod as I recall the article Holmes and I read on her when the King of Bohemia employed us. _Retired from the stage and living in London._

The cause of her retirement remained undisclosed, and now that I know it, I spend a moment wondering if Holmes knows it. If she ever told him in between kisses as they lazed around her— _their_ hotel room.

(remember, there's no jealousy to be felt for your best friend's paramour)

A strange guilt comes over me when I think that he has confided on me about her (however vague and off-handed) without knowing that several times she's come to our home to see _me_ instead of _him_.

(maybe I should tell him, maybe I should...)

She hisses, reminding me of the reason for her visits, and unknowingly she halts that train of thought to a stop.

She comes to see me not for myself, but for my medical abilities, whereas the only reason she doesn't stop by _his_ room on her way out... is that parting with him hurts too much. She has never said it in so many words, but through the years her wistful gazes at the wall, the one that separates us from _him,_ have told me enough.

The process of bandaging her chest becomes a blur of practiced motions, and hopefully by tomorrow I will have forgotten the texture of her pale skin under my hands, the constellation of freckles across her back, the decadent curve of her waist, the sinful cadence of her breath...

She speaks and I miss the words.

"How long do I have to be bed ridden?" She repeats at my blank expression.

"I would suggest a couple of weeks. At the very least," I add when she opens her mouth to protest.

She nods with convincing resolution, and it's only because I've been her doctor for so long that I can tell she's not going to follow my instructions.

She will be back by the end of the week, gasping at the insurmountable pain of exerting herself in this state, and I will have to give her a strong sedative that will knock her out for a couple of days, because that's the only way to get that stubborn woman to give her body the rest it needs.

I try not to be too happy that I will be seeing her again soon, given the circumstances, but the amusement must have reached my eyes for she scoffs, rolling her eyes like a scolded child.

She leaves immediately, and in the dark of my practice I allow myself a furtive smile, while writing down in a scrap of paper a reminder to buy enough sedatives to knock down a horse.

* * *

.

She does come by the end of the week, a look of utter defeat permeating her face, her doe eyes wide under her furrowed brows, her lower lip jutting out in a lovely pout, and even though I can see her pain in the stiff way she holds her upper body, I find myself endlessly endeared by the sight.

I know her to be dangerous, deceitful and quite possibly the ruin of both myself and my living companion (if not the entire nation), and perhaps it's only because I always see her at her weakest that I find it so easy to excuse her, to forget all the trouble she's caused and take her under my roof, but I can't help wondering if Holmes, for all the times he's fallen at her feet, has ever thought of her as I do right now, in terms of loveliness and heart-wrenching adoration.

Somehow I doubt it, as to my mind come all the vile words I've heard him use to describe her, all his disdainful, unforgiving speeches, in which he accuses her of every foul action possible short of prostitution (and oh, if only he knew of her being here...)

But even if he has had such thoughts of love, has he ever expressed them to her? Has he ever whispered sweet nothings into her hair, shrouded in the dark of their hotel room? Has he ever declared undying affections only to have them thrown back in his face after her next betrayal?

His bitter rants and brooding moods could certainly be explained by such rejection. He couldn't hate her as deeply as he does if he didn't love her to begin with. The important question here would be, does she love him?

Her actions certainly say otherwise. And yet...

And yet that night she cries, clinging to me desperately, while she wails and whimpers that she loves him, and that she wishes she didn't have to do what she is going to do.

I ask her what she's going to do, patting her back gently, trying not to show how afraid I really am. I tell her I can help, if she will only tell me what ails her. I promise her the stars and the moon but she doesn't seem to be listening, all she says is "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" and "he has to forgive me" over and over until she nods off, falls asleep with her face buried in my neck.

I hold her, as I do my breath, like this for millennia... or just couple of hours, until she stirs and opens her eyes, now clear of that crippling fear, and she says, so softly I almost miss it, "I need your help."

And so help her I do, as I always have, as I always will.


End file.
